The Sharp Sound of Piano keys
by ffanon
Summary: She'll find herself within his eyes; a whouffle drabble, a fragment of their lives in a Alternate Universe.


The air beyond the window is distant, unattached; and separated by the solid gloss of early morning mist pressed up against the window; the landscape has been turned dull and pasty by the same air – with the exception of a few vivid peaks of the real reality of the morning.

She is separate from it – the air outside the window does not affect her, just as she does not affect it.

Now this is with the exception of the gentle, curling, cool air drifting from those windows; breezes that grace across her skin, and cover up her heat like damp cloths; sucking it out and pulling it away.

She nestles into the duvet – worn and old, and smelling like _home_, mixed with the murky scent of them both, stitched and stirred with the many moments they shared within this exact bed – and pulls it tighter around her. The puffy material giving her frame plenty of room in its nestling comfort.

She pulls in a small breathe; blinks, lives in the feeling of her eyelashes parting; still damp with sleep. And exhales – the air curls against her lips, chill, as it slides outwards and into the room, and the simplicity of it makes her smile; just the barest coast, the slightest and smallest up turn of the edges of her lips; a stir of warmth in her cheeks.

And that's when the floor boards begin to creak; a delicate bend, shifting around the shape of a foot – before releasing and becoming its own form once more; the noise continues, less so, more delicate and careful as someone crosses the room.

And she does not turn; she remains nestled; curled within her cocoon of the blanket and its scents and moments, away from the dull, cool, morning air in the room. She remains alone, until she isn't – welcomed company with the dip of the bed, the creaking, swaying, careful weight as the form behind her crawls upwards; hands first, sprawled out on the sheets – followed by the press of knees, and the final dip; parting of the waves, as he lifts himself onto the bed, and continues moving; all in one steady beat.

He slides, wordlessly, across the endless landscape of the bed, miles apart and miles from her; his fingers and knuckles brushing like feathers across her bare shoulder as he grasps the top edge of the blanket and lifts it. Another gliding movement as he holds it open, the flap to a tent, and slides himself inside; curling against her, tucking himself up against her frame, still moving – tucking the same corner, edge, of the blanket underneath his side so they are both nestled inside, the air seeping out around them as the tent deflates.

And his wiggling – squirming against her bare skin – causes her smile to grow; coast and drift up her face, wrinkling the edges of her eyes. Eventually, he stills; comfortable at last with his position – but not quite, going by the way he scoots a little closer, his heel gently brushing against the top of her ankle as he begins to twine their legs. Her attention is snatched away from that at the barest touch of lips against the back of her ear – a kiss, in its truest form; delicate and filled with enough love to bring tears to her eyes.

And then he stills – a ghost, wrapped up in cotton; and only then is it her turn to move, and so she does.

Rolling over, she slides a hand underneath his bicep, in-between the fabric and forever warming flesh; slides it up the pan of his shoulder blades until it meets its twin; conjoins her fingers around the base of his neck and pulls herself closer; chest to chest. Dipping her head, she drifts along the skin – placing the same kiss, a companion to his earlier given one – across his collar bone, before finally lifting her head.

"You're home," She whispers, and outside the wind lifts – stirring the leaves and pawing down the temperature of the room, but not affecting it within their two forms, wrapped up together in the cocoon of their sole blanket.

He blinks – his eyes are damp, but she knows, deep down, that he hasn't been sleeping – and from this distance, she imagines she could count his eyelashes; find all those shades of green and blue within his eyes and light between them all. "I am." He returns.

Her smile is true; a full blown curves of lips – and the dampness in her eyes increases, and she gives it the attention it deserves, with another dip of her head, but nothing more; lifting it to look him in the eyes once more.

His hands underneath the blanket have begun to drift; sliding along her skin, leaving tendrils of warmth in their wake, and she doesn't say a word. Doesn't acknowledge it, doesn't need too, and he doesn't either. One of them comes to rest on her stomach; the other lost somewhere else in the valley of plain blue-white sheets and flesh.

"Did I miss anything?" He asks, with a gentle brush of fingers, parting and retracting, before returning to each other, gliding along the skin of her swollen belly.

Her smile dips and becomes something sweeter, more gentler, smaller. "No," Her lips are tinged slightly on the inside when they part. "I don't think so," She blinks, her eyes fleeting downwards and taking in the skin in the curve of his throat, and the dip of his collar bone – the place she had kissed.

She imagines, she swears, she could almost see the outline of her lips on his skin; a single, white trail, forever a reminder of her for him, another check point of their lives and the camera's focus on this moment. She looks up then, and he's smiling down at her – a smile smaller than hers, a ghost and echo of her own; and it's enough, it's true and perfect and brimming with love. "Good," He replies, his lips full on curving around the simple single word.

Her smile grows a little, and she scoots upwards – lifting herself slightly from the warmed ground of the sheets – and places her lips against his own, and stays like that. Neither of them move first; they simply do it at the same time, a gentle, slow, curve around each other, the slide of lips; broken only by the parting sound – for that is only where they separate, their heads remain in the same position. Dipped with foreheads pressed together, noses cradled atop each other.

She cannot see the morning light, not the soft, dull, humming glow of it on his face – and after a few seconds of this swelling darkness, she realizes that somewhere in-between she closed her eyes, and then realizes, she cannot bring herself to open them. Not even for the infinity of color she knows she'll find within his eyes.

"Good," He repeats – breathing the word against her lips; she can feel the brush of his against them when he speaks, but only for a second; and it's enough to make her smile again. "I wouldn't want that."

Her smile grows, and she kisses him again.

She can feel his smile when they do.


End file.
